Look Into The Light: Chapter 4

"I claim this city for Magnate the Immortal," Rigg blurted.

"You do *what*?" said Rhynwa, turning on him.

The floating city let off a faint rumble and seemed to solidify
in space. The little warrior whooped uncharacteristically, pumped his
fist in the air, and threw himself into Janther's arms. "Woo-hoo! We
did it!"

Janther spun him around and put him down. "Is this a good
thing?"

Rigg appeared to consider it. "Well, it's better than a fascist
Dalencian regime, isn't it? Capitalism's cool. I'll tell you all about it
one of these days." He gripped Janther's arm. "Listen, I'm sorry I've
been such a jerk. I didn't know you were you, and then you didn't
know I was me-- these things happen."

"I've had some encounters with capitalism," said Janther. "A
responsible leader is required."

"Magnate's very responsible. You'll see." Rigg popped a
wrist panel open and took out a disk. The blank countenance
resolved into Shilree's. Max gasped loudly. "This is going to be a
good thing. What were you going to do, run this city yourselves?"

"No *way*," said Tila. "You couldn't pay me enough to be
an administrator."

"One of these days you stupid kiljhacs have got to stop going
in without a plan."

"Shilree," said Rhynwa, "Gdeon, Kyv, he turned out to be an
alien space dragon--"

"Yeah, I know." She twisted her other wrist, and her strange
bodyarmor retracted in articulated haste into the gauntlet. She was
wearing a business suit with a short skirt underneath it. "I'm sorry
for leaving him with you, but I had too much to do and I couldn't
have taken care of him. Listen, I need to discuss some things with
Magnate. I'm sure you understand. Sorry about, you know,
pretending to be dead. It was a need-to-know situation." She
pointed at Janther. "Except you. I'm not sorry to you. You started
it."

"I wasn't pretending to be dead."

"Sure you weren't. Janther Moria."

"I *died*."

"Yeah," she said, "so I can do things a little more subtly than
you can, Sunfighter. I'm sure everyone's just shocked." She took off
the gauntlet and fluttered her fingers cheerily as she evaporated.

Rhynwa stared after her. "Shilree is *smiling*!"

"King Rowan," said Shannon smoothly. "There's somethin' I
need to talk to you about."

"No," he said, "there is something you want to talk to me
about. That isn't the same at all." He got up to leave.

"*Wait*. Rowan. It's about Brytannwch." He walked out.
She puffed up her cheeks and exhaled. "Stubborn bastard. Now I'm
goin' to have to make Eric tell him about this."

"Oh, good *luck*," said Khyrisse.

"Yeah, well he's already sleepin' on the couch tonight, believe
you me. There's one or two little details of this job he neglected to
tell me." She clapped Janther on the ass on her way out; he whirled
around angrily but she didn't look back. "She didn't know anything
about the attack on Diaria, did she?" said Tila.

"She *must* have," said Max. "Why wouldn't he tell her?"

"Because he's a *dick*," said Khyrisse.

"Because the Lord High Diarian is psionic," said Tila.
"Janther, do you think she's bitten off more than she can chew, or
does she know what she's doing?"

"Yes. I was with the rebellion. I--I read the man's mind
myself. He had stabbed you through the heart. There was no--your
girlfriend was involved. It was a big scandal." Janther touched his
heart. "Why did you leave?"

"The Sidhe kept me from dying," he said, "but I couldn't stay.
Rowan said the revolution succeeded. That things are good there."

"Things are much better," said Praxis.

"That's good."

"My name is Praxis. I--it's an honor to finally meet you."

"Aaah! Kimmy!" Trissia vaulted over the drums and
whacked Iellan Tach across the chest with her battleaxe. "You
self-righteous *prick*! She's a *cellist*!"

"Give up your evil ways," said Tach, and bopped her with the
mace.

"Yeah, I'll show you evil--"

As Janther took a step his foot struck something that gave
way. The ground tilted beneath him, though the fairy goggles
showed it flat as ever. Fully disoriented, he fell; his shoulder hit the
ground at least a second before he saw it hit the ground, and when he
saw it, he felt nothing. He was rocking, slightly. The ground was
curved here but it appeared flat. Janther had a piercing headache and
he felt sick. Before he could think about which was right he had
taken off his goggles. He felt the curve of the ground before him, to
the side, pivoted slowly on his knees and felt it behind him, smooth
as stone. He pushed and felt it rock just slightly, forward and back.
He was inside something. He took a deep breath and put his goggles
back on. Max and Luthien were fighting with some of the Demon
Brigade in front of the stage. Behind them, the remaining members
of the audience moshed frenetically, violently, as if their lives were
depending on it. Janther found a coin and tossed it up in front of
him, watched it slide down along an unseen curve. He was inside an
invisible sphere. He pulled his sword and stabbed it but the blade
skimmed off it without a noise. A forcefield of some sort. Janther
stood up, slowly, and took a step. The ball rolled beneath his foot
but he had his bearings back and did not fall. On the stage Trissia
Maddyx, fighting with Tach, threw back her head and screamed as a
masked assassin stabbed her suddenly from behind. Janther put his
sword away. The mage seemed to be preparing another spell;
Janther took bigger steps to gain momentum and then launched into
him from behind. There was a crunch and a scream. The world was
upside down for a dizzying moment. When Janther came round again
the sphere slammed into a tree. The impact was very dulled. The
Demon Brigade mage sat partially upright and shouted "Tach, help
me!" His entire left arm appeared shattered; the sphere must have
rolled directly over it. Tach turned and Trissia breathed fire all over
him. "Sikhatti!" she roared, in an unnatural voice. Someone
screamed. A stoned kid in the front of the mosh pit stared up at her,
enraptured. "I love you, Trissia," he said. She kicked the drums
over on top of him. "Jarth!" shouted Janther. "She's possessed!
You have to heal her." Jarth did not seem to hear him. "I'll handle
this," he announced. "Meet Zerthimon, greater angel of Morvon!"
Jarth exploded into a huge, furry tentacled thing, dressed in a kilt.
There was more screaming. Some of the Demon Brigade broke
away to confront him. "Hello," he said, "hi, greater angel coming
through, yes, excuse me."

Janther cupped his hands around his mouth. "Heal her!" he
shouted at the top of his lungs. No one responded. The sphere must
be holding in sound. He heard a voice in his head then, suddenly:
-Alain, are you trying to say something?-

"Yes," he said. "Trissia is possessed. Someone needs to heal
her for her to regain control. And keep them away from her."

"Zerthimon!" shouted Praxis. "Alain says to heal Trissia, so
she can regain control."

"H-eal her. Yeah. Sure. Yeah, I can heal her. Excuse me."
He backpedaled away from one of the fighters advancing on him and
pointed at Trissia with his four-fingered hand. "Zap!" he yelled.
"You are *healed*, sister!" Trissia ignored him and swung at Tach.
"Hey, Trissia, I said you were *healed*!"

"Oh, for--"

"Tach!" screamed the mage with the crushed arm. "Tach,
you've made your point; get us *out* of here!"

"You have not heard the last of us," intoned the battered
cleric, and the Demon Brigade disappeared as quickly as they had
come. Trissia flung herself into the mosh pit, roaring. Just then
Syndy reached her and sprinkled something on her head; the bard
collapsed immediately. "All right," shouted Luthien, jumping up
onto the stage. "All right, pass her up here, please!"

"My work here is done," said Zerthimon, and reverted into
Jarth. "Well, I see the mighty Zerthimon has saved the day!"

"Yeah, I'm *fine*, except that fuckin' fundamentalists killed
my cellist and unleashed my fuckin'--" Trissia threw back her glass.
"Thanks for you guys' help. This is the most counterproductive
bunch of fucks I've ever met. It only even comes *out* when
somebody knocks me out."

She moved her head back, looking at him narrowly through
the corners of her eyes. "Listen," she said, "if this is about some kind
of perverted demon coupling thing, you tell your demon to take a
long walk off a short pier."

"I--*what*?"

"I said stay away from my demon. I don't want it doing
anything disgusting with my body and I don't want it talking to other
demons. Got that?"

Janther opened his mouth and shut it. He shook his head like
he was trying to clear it. "Your demon wouldn't listen to mine," he
said.

"Oh," she said, and filled her glass again. "Well, if this is just
about you and me, that's different. You look pretty good."

"This isn't about sex at *all*," he said. "I just wanted to say--
listen, I know it's not easy."

"That's good." She opened an envelope and tapped powder
into her drink. "Hey, I'll let you in on something. Cyanide puts the
kick back into alcohol."

"How--did you discover that?"

"You probably don't want to know."

"I'm sorry, Syndy," said Janther. "We should have come
earlier. I should have come earlier."

"I didn't know," she said. "I didn't think it was so urgent. I--
didn't know." She looked like she was going to cry.

"I'm sorry," he said. "None of us realized. Syndy, if I had
known, I would have come. You have to believe me. I would not
have let this happen."

She looked up at him. "I believe every word you have ever
said," she whispered, with terrible simplicity.

He was a tall, shadowy figure, indistinct in form and dressed
entirely in black. The sharp lines of his face cast his eyes and cheeks
completely in shadow. When he moved his body rippled. "My lord,"
said Syndriannia, quavering a little.

"Not at present." His voice was soft and dry, like the wind.
Syndy started to cry. "I don't understand. How could all this happen
while I was in the human lands?"

"Who controls time," said the king, "controls Tirnanog."

"It wasn't her fault," said Janther.

"Of course not." He put his thin hand on her head and looked
across to the orator. "You are the boy who closed the rift between
Coramh and Duira Tun?"

Janther looked down. "I--am."

"Weren't you mortal then?"

He jerked his head up. "I *am* mortal. I am--I have been
joined by a force of Sidhe. But I'm mortal."

The king looked at him. "No matter," he said. "It would
seem you have your own alliance to forge, and your own war. What
of you, little one, where will you go?"

Syndy shut her eyes. "My allegiance is always to you, my
lord."

"But I am going into exile," said the king, "and I will not be
requiring the services of a messenger. The yellow king sits in the
castle now." Syndy put the heels of her hands into her eyes. "You
will surely be accepted in his court."

"After siding with you?" blurted Trissia. "You can't send
her--"

"We are aspects of each other," said the king, turning his
shadowed countenance on the bard. "The wheel has turned. She will
be safe there."

"Trissia," said Janther, softly. "She can't leave. She's part of
the Sidhe."

"She can leave." He removed his hand from Syndy's head.
"But if she leaves, she can never return."

"You're not really Zerthimon, are you?"

"It's that obvious, huh?"

"Yes," said Tila. "What's your real name?"

"You wouldn't be able to pronounce it," he said. "It's
George."

"*George*? Why wouldn't I be able to pronounce that?"

"Oh. I guess you can pronounce it. Well yeah, like Jarth, I
suppose. Anyway, hi, I'm George."

"Right. Well, I had one other question for you."

"Shoot!"

"What have you got under that kilt?"

"Uh... same as you, I guess."

"The--same as me, or the same as Max?"

"Why, what's the difference?"

"Look," said Trissia, "we're not interested, so just take your
lunch and get the fuck out of our way, all right?"

"Touchy, touchy," said Wyvern. "What an aggressive girl
you are, Trissia. What are you trying to hide behind that attitude? A
forbidden vulnerability, a rape, an unwanted child?"

Trissia was blown back a step, suddenly quite pale. "I--that's
none of your business," she stammered.

"But you're wrong, you see." He sprawled across the throne,
the bloody arm dangling carelessly from his hand. "You are all my
business, and I daresay I am yours. Even disregarding that, there's a
certain... arrogance... involved in placing the source of your
tantrums off-limits, don't you think? When you start taking your
helplessness and rage and your own failure as a mother out on the
people around you, it becomes their business. You are everyone's
business, Trissia Maddyx. Why don't you curse about it a little.
Maybe it'll make you feel a bit more in control." He turned his head
from the staring bard, who for once didn't seem to have much to say.
"George, George, George. Still hiding your true nature from your
unsuspecting host?"

"Wyvern, Wyvern, Wyvern," said George. "Still
condescendingly psychoanalyzing--erp!" He backed off a couple of
alarmed steps as the thin man stood, some strange fire in his eyes.
"That will do," said Wyvern, frighteningly soft. "You've already
destroyed your friend Frank with your poor judgment, George;
there's really no hope left for Jarth. Must you destroy the rest of
them, too?"

"Frank?" said George. "What do you know about Frank?"
"It's a little late for you to be demonstrating concern for him,
don't you think?" Wyvern looked across at Praxis, and showed just
the tips of his teeth in a smile. "The lonely psionicist. Todd, isn't it?"

"Praxis," said Praxis. "And far from lonely."

"The only one of your kind," said Wyvern. "If you are not
lonely, perhaps it is because there are so many of Todd's kind."
Praxis reacted just barely, his eye flicking up at Wyvern and his hand
tightening. "Tell us, Todd, what were you doing three years ago?"

Praxis looked away. "Growing up," he finally said, softly.

"How charming. How many lives did you spend to finance
the endeavor?" Praxis looked at the ground, flushed. "Or haven't
you told your friends about your life as a gangland thug in
Gwynedd?"

"It is not our pasts that make us who we are," said Janther.
"It is what we make out of our pasts."

"Oh, yes." Wyvern turned to him. "The little demon that
could. You'd better hope you're wrong, Alain MacLir. You have
such a picturesque past, and it's an ugly path you're turning down
now."

"Then I will walk it as best I can."

Wyvern shook his head. "You don't actually let him make
decisions, do you?" he asked Max.

"With all due respect, Mr. Wyvern," said Max, "what exactly
are we accomplishing here?"

"Not much," agreed Wyvern. "Humor me, Max; it's not
every day I encounter such a group of delightfully messed-up
individuals."

"You really should have caught us on a day Shilree was
here," said Tila.

Wyvern dismissed her with a wave of his thin hand. "Spoiled,
narcissistic runaway debutantes, now, obsessed with their own
homeliness, those are a dime a dozen."

Tila looked wounded. "I'm not *that* homely."

"You had to mind-control Thurm into having sex with you,"
he pointed out.

Max was startled. "You *did*?"

"Oh, suck my left tit," said Tila, shaken.

"Max isn't very interesting, either," continued Wyvern.
"Bastard children of marauding aliens: you've seen one, you've seen
them all. Your mother never quite recovered from that, you know."

"That was my father's fault," said Max, "not mine."

"Of course it was," said Wyvern, almost soothingly. "It
would have been much easier for her if you'd never been born, of
course, but it's too late to do anything about that now. You just put it
out of your mind and bury your head in heroics again." He turned to
Endicott. "Ah, the conscientious objector with the bloodstained past.
No wonder you find Praxis so attractive; you're birds of a feather."

Endicott folded his arms and looked at Wyvern with a
wonderful contempt, not unlike the expression he might have had if
the evil wizard had suddenly pulled down his pants and shit on the
floor. He didn't say anything. Wyvern clucked his tongue. "So
hostile. What was her name, the girl you beat that time?..."

"Amanda," said Endicott. "I have not forgotten her."

"Amanda. A lot of assassins turn down jobs like that, you
know. You didn't have to accept anything quite so... violent."

"I am aware of that."

"She never did get her sight back in that eye, did she. At least
the brain damage wasn't too severe."

"You think you can solve any problem with enough
discipline, don't you?" Wyvern smiled. "The problem with discipline
is that it's never constant, no matter how good you get at it. There
will always be those few minutes here and there where you let your
guard down, every day, every few days. They're not going
anywhere. Because your discipline is superimposed, and nothing has
changed at all. One day you will forget at the wrong time. Your
comrades should hope they are not in your way then." He smiled at
Syndriannia with unpleasant pleasantness. "Hello, dear, and how are
the Fairy lands?"

She looked at him dubiously. "They'll outlast *you*."

"I don't doubt it. I hope you enjoyed yourself in the mortal
realms while they were getting into the state in which they will
outlast me." She put her face in her hands. "And now that the
damage is done, you've gone refugee. Don't you think it's a little
selfish to abandon the world you destroyed over a schoolgirl crush?"

"Leave her alone," said Janther.

"I keep meaning to get back to you." He cocked his head at
the orator. "The poster boy for the incurably naive. If you only had
any concept of how easily I could break your psyche into a thousand
pieces with the truth about yourself."

"I am not afraid of the truth," said Janther, softly. Wyvern
pointed at him with the finger of the severed arm. "I would really
love to spend more time with you," he said, with heartfelt sincerity.
"You would be a great deal of fun. No; learn your own dark secret,
there's more suspense in it that way." He scratched Spots' head with
the dead hand. Spots flicked his tongue. "Your second pet may be
the sanest of the lot of you. Fine animal." Wyvern sighed and tossed
the arm on the table. "Well, Luthien." He turned his own hand and
contemplated it for a moment, smirking, then leaned forward on his
elbow. "How are you, boy?"

"That's what I was trying to say," interposed Max. "We've
come for the claw of Andovin."

"You don't say." Wyvern cocked his head. "I rather thought
Luthien was here to kill me. Coincidence is a lovely thing. Close
your mouth, boy; you'll catch flies. I see you've decided to follow the
trade."

"You," whispered Luthien.

"Come now, it hasn't been *that* long. I recognized *you*."

"You murdered my mother, you son of a bitch!" hollered
Luthien. Max grabbed him from behind. "Oh, now don't go insulting
*my* mother," said Wyvern, sadly. "I loved her, you know." He
caught the younger necromancer's eye. "I even tried to protect her
from my father, for all the good that did. And yet, when it got to be
my turn, I found myself somehow--moved. Do you know, Luthien,
almost every child of an abusive relationship grows up to be abusive.
Which leaves us with a very interesting question." He extended his
hand across the table, his eyes boring over its palm into Luthien like
coals. "Is a curse an external force, or is it a convenient name for a
rot much deeper in the heart? What do you think, Luthien?"

Luthien was breathing irregularly and deep. "I--will *never*."

"No?" Wyvern shrugged. "Well, wait till the baby comes. I
made it two. How *is* your sister? I really should look her up."

"Leave. Leave her alone."

"You're not powerful enough to kill me and take my place
yet, Luthien. And you're too young to understand why you might as
well join me. We can discuss this in five or ten years, when you're
ready. You may have a new perspective on things by then." He
smiled. Luthien breathed. "The claw of Andovin." The archmage
opened a drawer under the table and took out what looked like a
gold backscratcher. "I suppose I am a bit behind in child support."
He started to extend it, then stopped. "Can I trust you with this,
boy?"

Luthien didn't move. "*Trust* us?" said Max.

"It's just that I have this sneaking suspicion that *I* might
have tried to use it." Wyvern tapped the artifact against his own leg,
smiling with pursed lips. "Maybe you'd better take it, Max."

Max released Luthien to catch the claw. Luthien stood like a
statue. "Wait," said Max. "What..."

Wyvern was gone in a shimmering twist of light.

"I don't understand," said Max. Tila moved in to examine the
throne. Luthien stood shaking, his gloved right hand clenched, his
mouth ajar, his jet-black hair stuck with sweat to his death-white
forehead. "Luthien, don't listen to him. You're not like that."

"He's a motherfucking asswipe," announced Syndy. Even
Luthien turned his head to stare at her. "*What*?" said Janther.

She shrugged. "Trissia said it sounded stupid when I called
people jerkfaces," she explained.

Tila squinted critically at the gnawed arm on the table.
"Funny," she said, "how unnoticed another Nylevian psychic has
managed to go."

Praxis cleared his throat, without looking up. "He's not
necessarily psionic," he said. "Any thieves' guild could have come up
with that level of dirt about us, not to mention a scry."

"You think so?" Tila sat in the throne. "Spoiled and homely,
maybe, but I've got two eyes in my head, and that guy was hitting
every note. He was only saying things he knew we'd be susceptible
to. I get the distinct feeling he was just messing with our minds."
She drummed her fingers together. "Interesting how concerned he
was with our moral lapses for a guy who killed his wife. Do we have
any evidence that he's really Luthien's father, except his own say-so?"

"You think he's *not*?" said Praxis.

"I think claiming to be Luthien's father would be the most
direct way to attack Luthien," said Tila, "if you're not. And I think
that if a psionic necromancer had been running around Nylevia all
these years the Diari would have heard about it."

"You don't mean he's a Diari spy?" said Praxis.

"The possibility had occurred to me," said Tila. "I certainly
see no reason to accept anything he says as true."